Saturday Seeley
by darlasmom
Summary: Why was she suddenly so happy to see the weekend? General, romance. BB in an established relationship.


**Just a little one-shot, to tide you wonderful people over for another few weeks. Enjoy!**

**SATURDAY SEELEY**

She loved weekends.

Reflecting on that thought late one Friday afternoon, Brennan frowned in concentration as she began to reconstruct her third skull of the day. Rational scientist that she was, she had noticed the change a few months ago and was now busily examining all aspects of her feelings. Accustomed to picking apart every detail of the cases she and Booth investigated, she was less used to dissecting her own emotions. But as she thought about it, she realized she knew exactly when the change had begun.

It had happened when _he'd_ moved in.

The arrangement had started out as just that; something that was practical and convenient. However much she valued her privacy, once they had become seriously involved it had made sense to cohabitate. Money saved, time saved, proximity to each other removing the need to travel back and forth. But quickly, more quickly than she'd ever imagined, it had altered into something completely different; something entirely _more_. Barring the extra hours they both put in on their cases, on weeknights they were quite autonomous. She would return from working a full day, only to toil through the evening on her extra projects before dinner. Freshly showered after returning from his evening run or workout at the gym, he would coax her out of her den to eat. Later, after more research for her and a televised hockey or basketball game for him, they would come together again at bedtime. A slow, satisfied smile curved her lips at her appropriate choice of words. They couldn't seem to keep their hands off each other. But then, intimacy was normal in a relationship.

No, the things that had surprised her the most were her Saturdays and Sundays. Before she'd been with him, she'd spent the majority of her weekends alone. Working, researching. Exercising. And she'd enjoyed it. But the first time she'd seen him on a Saturday morning everything had changed.

She still awakened early. The only difference now was that she rose much more quickly. If she lingered for too long, a strong arm would sling around her waist and she wouldn't get up again for another hour or two. Her smile widened. Sometimes she was slow on purpose.

Before they were together he'd spent hours simply looking at her, his intelligent eyes carefully watchful; even more carefully shielded. At the time she'd chosen not to let on that she was quite aware of his intense scrutiny. Instead of irritating her it had somehow put her at ease. Perhaps it was because it was evidence that he cared for her, even if it was only out of friendship. But now that they were living together, she found that in an odd transposition she was the one watching _him_. When they were alone, a great deal of his fearsome alertness dropped and she was able to observe him undetected. Some mornings they rushed about in tandem, hurrying to dress for a case, or packing food or equipment for whatever activity they had planned for the day. But she liked most those times when they stayed home. When he seemed a little…rough around the edges. She supposed that was the best term for it. He would pad around the apartment at a leisurely hour, bare feet defying the chill floors, a sleepy pout on his lips and his eyes dark and unfocused. Ratty t-shirt, mussed hair, faded flannels, gritty stubble…it all appealed to her, ridiculously so. Some mornings she held strong, working on her book or their paperwork from a file, or yet another tub of old bones he'd insisted on carrying home for her.

But the other mornings…

Deep inside her the urge to be near him would grow strong. After that, the bones would stubbornly yield nothing to her, and the words from her latest novel or paper would blend together in a frustrating forensic jumble. After glancing up at him several times she would find herself leaving her desk and moving closer, lightly trailing her hand along his shoulders as he slouched deep in the cushions and perused the sports section over a steaming mug of coffee. Then he would glance up, the pout melting into a small but no less affecting smile for several seconds. On other days, that casual brush of her hand simply wasn't enough and she would lean over, arms draped around his neck from behind. From her vantage point it was the easiest thing in the world to nuzzle and sniff his neck, and she knew he would unfailingly lean his head toward her in an odd type of cranial caress. A noggin noodling, he'd once called it when he was in a whimsical mood. Even better, he would sometimes turn to her, dropping a sweet kiss or three on her forehead. Then she was able to go about her business, her mind peaceful and smooth. Her bones would agree with her, and the pool of characters on her laptop would become words once more.

Sometimes, though, when she kissed his neck she would feel his body twist, and without warning his arm would loop about her, pulling her over the back of the couch and into his embrace. She didn't get any work done on those mornings.

Had the practical arrangement led to the desire for more, or had the desire for more led to the practical arrangement? As he rose within the ranks of the FBI there were times when he was called in to supervise on the occasional Saturday. While she admittedly felt his absence on those days she was nonetheless quite capable of continuing her work. But it only confused her all the more. It was a conundrum of the most difficult kind.

She had evaluated her feelings and her unusual behavior for a great while – at least, until the first time it rained on the weekend. When it rained, she stopped caring entirely.

The inclement weekends were like nothing she'd ever experienced before. The sense of isolation, of a curtain being dropped around them, heightened her awareness of their intimacy to an almost unbearable level. Although she knew that feeling of isolation was neither rational nor accurate she was unable to combat it. Her desire to complete extra work evaporated completely the minute the first drops of rain fell from the sky. To call her behavior fidgeting was not merely understating her actual movement but misclassifying it completely. When the thunderclouds rolled in she was instantly set adrift within the apartment, wandering aimlessly from one room to the next while she performed useless, menial chores. There was no point in even attempting her more intellectual tasks. Her mind would only touch lightly upon the desired subject before angling off on a meaningless tangent.

Much as he always did, Booth always instinctively perceived the change in her. He never came to her or tried to initiate anything, but simply waited for her meanderings throughout the apartment to bring her past him. She never kept him waiting for long. A slight tug from his hand seemed to be all the persuasion she needed to clamber onto the couch, curling around him like a cat wanting to be stroked. He always took her soft, yielding moments in stride, never teasing her or even acknowledging the change. He merely gathered her in and held her. Sometimes they remained there for hours, his big, flat palms soothing and settling her until the apartment began to darken.

She wondered at herself, wondered why she tolerated those moods. Questioned why she had them to begin with. She'd never dealt with them before. Not before _him_. Her mouth firmed with annoyance. Self-analysis was hardly her forte – indeed, she'd spent years avoiding such pointless exercises. Perhaps she simply enjoyed Booth's company because she knew he accepted her as she was. Whether she was focused or distracted, happy or sad, pensive or decisive, he treated her exactly the same. And he was fun. He made her laugh. He had a wicked sense of humor, and a seemingly endless supply of jokes designed to elicit much rolling of her eyes. As the unmistakable sound of her partner approaching filled her ears, she grinned and remembered the saucy quip Angela had tossed at her when her free time on the weekends became markedly _less_. Saucy and just a tad smug.

"Bones! What the hell ya doin'?" A deft flip of his hand slid an empty box nearer. "Pack up Mister Skull. We have reservations for Corduroy in thirty minutes, and tomorrow..." Eyes dark, he leaned in, pausing for dramatic effect, "...is _Saturday_."

Carefully boxing the skull fragments for transport home, she allowed him to shepherd her out of the lab, smiling inwardly while she bickered with him for form's sake. She wasn't going to think about it anymore. However all of this had happened, she was going to try to merely enjoy it_. _And she thought once more about her friend. Angela had been right.

There was a reason both days of the weekend started with the letter S.

**As always, thanks so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed it.**


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